


Shadow in the Sun

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Diary/Journal, Drama, F/M, Philosophy, inquisitor waxes philosophical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "There are Rifts opening all around us, demons threaten the innocent, Orlais is torn apart by civil war, Grey Wardens are disappearing, Venatori stalk the western lands in large numbers, an ancient darkspawn wishes to usurp the Maker’s throne (or so he says in his immeasurable hubris), and here I am, dutifully recording how I found out that people are betting on me and Cullen doing… what? That metaphor about a courtly dance comes to mind yet again, and I cannot even say how inept I am with those. " </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The thoughts of Roxanne Trevelyan as she comes to a crossroads regarding where she and the Inquisition needs to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: By popular demand, the journals of Roxanne Trevelyan were raided once again.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Quote notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> **1. _‘The beginning of wisdom is the most sincere desire for instruction’_ —from the Bible, Wisdom 6:17 (Revised Standard Edition Catholic Version). **  
> **2\. ' _Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven’_ \--Chant of Light, Andraste 7:19 **

 

_No means I find to rid him from my breast,_  
_Till by the end of things it be suppressed._  
  
_I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,_  
_Since from myself another self I turned._

_\--Monsieur’s Departure, Qntal-_

_At night I find it hard_  
_To rest my head and fall asleep_  
_Cos death is telling me_  
_That I, I could leave here_  
_Oh but long ago I made a pact_  
_I intend to keep it_  
_As long as I am breathing_  
_I'll keep on trying_

  
_-Katie Gray, From Far Away-_

 

_From the private journals of Roxanne Trevelyan_

 

Crestwood is just as damp as I remember it from months back. It is not merely my subjective observation, but a joint agreement with the members of my inner circle with whom I am currently traveling. Solas is definitely quieter than usual, and Blackwall retreats into his woodcarving every evening. If Sera was not here to draw them out (albeit I must admit, filling Solas’ bedroll with lizards may have been just a bit too much), they probably would just grunt one-syllable responses to everything and eat alone in their tents. I know I am also not the most social person in the world (and that is gently and charitably put), yet those two officially put me to shame. I even apologized to Sera one particularly chilly evening.

“Crap, now what did I do?” was her response.

“What do you mean?” I asked, slightly baffled. “I was the one who…”

“Yeah, Quizzy (this is, apparently, her slightly irreverent nickname for me), I know the score,” she said, lounging by the fireside of our camp just off Three Trout Farms ( _marginal note_ : aptly named, stinks of fish). “You apologize, it means I did wrong. Your mind is all crooked.”

“Why, thank you,” I must confess I found talking to Sera wretchedly difficult at first, albeit our relationship improved gradually. The gap between the two of us was almost insurmountable in the beginning, and I would be lying if I said we implicitly trusted each other. Not to mention I had serious trouble deciphering her accent for a while. “I take that as a compliment and suppose that is why you tipped me off about that little operation in Verchiel  for which we dispatched our troops not too long ago?”

“Phhft.” I will never in my life will be able to reproduce any of the sounds Sera makes when she is out of words. I am told by Varric that  this one is called a ‘raspberry’, so I can recognize there are differences between them, but _Maker_! “They’re messing with refugees, those nobles. I knew you wouldn’t stand for that shite.” She grinned. “Also, because your mind’s crooked. Right.”

“See? You did not do anything wrong.” I paused. “Yet.”

“Want me to?” She considered, and from the way her eyes lit up I knew I was in trouble. “Oooh, I know! How ’bout this one: miss him yet?”

“Excuse me?” I lifted an eyebrow with what I believed was perfect dignity and composure.

“Don’t give me that shite,” she pronounced and elbowed me. “Your Cullen-Wullen.” She tilted her head sideways, considering. “Cully-Wully?”

“Sera.” I must confess that my hand moved to the pommel of my sword at that moment, which is probably exactly what she was looking for. “I do not recall you and I have ever been in terms that would justify…”

“Ha!” She pointed with a cackle. “Hand on sword, you miss him. Parts, anyway. Hey, went all red too.” She reached out a hand towards Blackwall, who was busy whittling away at a piece of wood (presumably another toy griffon, he really liked to give those out to children in the villages we passed through) and wiggled her fingers. “You owe me five.”

“It’s perfectly possible she just objects to you calling the Commander-General of the Inquisition’s armies ‘Cully-wully’, Sera,” Blackwall said, not even pausing. “I don’t owe you shit.”

“You’re just messin’ with my head.” Sera looked at me. “We all know. Lots of men under him. Needs a woman over him.” She giggled. “Because positions. So: yes?”

“Ser Warden?” I stood up slowly, looking at Blackwall. “Would you mind doing your Inquisitor a favor and explain to this young lady here that given that I am absolutely not interested in the details of my inner circle’s private life and thus will not, under any circumstances, bring up the way she eyes Chief Scout Harding’s chest every single time they meet, it is highly disrespectful towards the highest-ranking military member of our organization to imply that…”

“Woof.” Sera was still grinning. “So rattled she needs reinforcements. And yeah, Lace’s tits are great. But not the point. Point is, there are _wagers_ on the two of you, Quizzy. Pool’s pretty big.”

I sat back down; despite everything I felt myself blush as I considered what she just said. That a large enough number of Skyhold’s denizens spend their spare time thinking about…

_Maker_. This is my private journal and I am yet strangely reticent to write, even here, about… well, _private_ matters. Matters I largely do not even dare to hope, consider, dream, cherish? I could practically pen entire treatises about how I turn these thoughts around over and over again in my head, and when confronted with how others see this strange _minuet_ that Cullen and I are dancing, I freeze and refuse to face reality. Some brave _chevalier_ , Inquisitor and Herald I make. There are Rifts opening all around us, demons threaten the innocent, Orlais is torn apart by civil war, Grey Wardens are disappearing, Venatori stalk the western lands in large numbers, an ancient darkspawn wishes to usurp the Maker’s throne (or so he says in his immeasurable hubris), and here I am, dutifully recording how I found out that people are betting on me and Cullen doing… what? That same metaphor about a courtly dance comes to mind yet again, and I cannot even say how inept I am with those.

I deflected the allegations that I might even consider missing him in a _different_ way than missing the advice of my military commander or even the voice of a friend, yes—but that does not make it any less true, and it is time that I acknowledge that. The way I dodge even the notion of staring into the dying embers of the fire at night because the almost-burned-out wood has the color of his fur cloak.  The way my hand tingles sometimes not because of the mark that my left bears, but because my right remembers that kiss he placed in my palm. The way I sleep so much better with lavender and elfroot crushed under my pillow these days not because the scent chases away mosquitoes and the stench of the undead, but because it reminds me of his skin that night when I tended to him after his withdrawal episode. The way I am always the first to grab the courier letters or the ravens’ messages arriving to our camps, looking for his handwriting. And the way I carefully fold away the second, smaller missive tucked into the first one when I finally find the one from him, and withdraw to my tent like some thief squirreling away their treasures to take it out and fondle it when no one sees…

_“Yet again,”_ I remember the first of such letters said, “ _I must assure you that my health remains constant. While somewhat weaker than I was in my prime (and there goes my wounded pride with admitting that), it appears I can still beat unruly recruits into submission sufficiently enough that you’ll probably hear about it when you come back ( ~~to which I am looking forward~~ ) ( ~~and may I hope that you~~ ) hopefully in good health. _

_I also have to tell you I appreciated your thoughtfulness of leaving Cassandra here to assist in smaller matters requiring the touch of a more military-oriented mind. As that clearly was your doing (yes, I asked and she confessed), I can’t help but suspect that Rylen and Lynette volunteering to take over most preliminary correspondence work wasn’t exactly their own idea either.  I should clearly resent this insertion of your executive powers into my sphere of authority, Inquisitor, except that with these modifications to my schedule I sleep about two hours longer these days. And I still manage my morning running practice. See? I’m listening to good advice; old age probably is catching up on me.”_

For the sake of posterity I also shall copy here a part of Cassandra’s letter to me, arriving a day later via raven.

“ _Inquisitor, for the love of the Maker, convey it to Cullen somehow that he doesn’t need to leave permanent scars and bruises on recruits to make a point about just how superior he is. We know. I took to sparring with him every day in the morning now. Iron Bull swears he will let Lieutenant Aclassi conduct the patrols, stop playing chess with Dorian and ‘take up the slack soon’ in assisting me in this duty. My joints would certainly thank him, otherwise I believe I’ll head up a scouting party to the Western Approach as soon as possible to recover somewhat. Or join Vivienne in redecorating the Great Hall with extreme prejudice. Don’t tell Blackwall please but I don’t think I’ll ever go hard on him during sparring again._

_As to Cullen’s ability to lead the troops, since you inquired: he is absolutely qualified. I’m not sure what exactly it is that you managed to beat into his head when you took care of him that night, but he’s doing better. As it’s probably clear from what I just said.”_

Some might call me unnecessarily fussy, but I have good reason to worry. Many good reasons, truthfully said, but one of those specifically stems from my knowledge about Templars. The Trevelyans gave daughters and sons to the service of the Chantry for long generations, so our family knows more than the average person on Thedas about what Templars endure. In fact, one of my father’s younger brothers was dedicated as a Templar—my uncle Erec. He served at the Ostwick Circle, and visited us occasionally. I remember, in particular, his last one. That was when I was asked to accompany him and some of the Ostwick mages to the Conclave; and the main reason I will never forget that conversation was when he revealed _why_ he was asking me.

_“It has started, Roxanne,” Uncle Erec’s eyes bore into mine, blood-rimmed and full of pain. His grip on my arm was still strong; too strong, perhaps. “Don’t look at me like that, you were considered for service as a youngster before your father decided he would rather name you his heir and send you to the Academy instead. I know you read enough of the old family diaries to understand what I mean. I need your eyes and ears with me, because…” He shook his head ruefully and ruffled my hair just like when I was six. “You truly would have made a worthy candidate…but this is better. I wouldn’t wish this on you, child. I…” I watched, dismayed, as his eyes glazed over the third time that day, and his speech faltered. I supported his weight as he staggered, dazed, then looked at me, eyes just a little but more bloodshot then before and repeated the exact words than before. “It has started, Roxanne.”_

He was losing his mind. Slowly it creeps up on them, the disorientation, the dementia, the hallucinations, after decades of ingesting lyrium, slowly it eats their mind, their memories, their sanity—the price they pay for defending our world from possession, abominations and demon invasions. Once started, no one ever gave up lyrium willingly in living memory that the Chantry knows of. Casssandra looked, I looked—nothing.

Except Cullen. Maker help him, he was on uncharted waters, and at the helm of the Inquisition’s army.  I owed to not only to him, but to everyone who swore an oath to our banner to help him with all I had to succeed.

“Wagers, huh?” The last member of our expedition sat down next to me after Sera pranced away to pester Solas again. She had a bowl of stew from our dinner in her hand—her third one. “Don’t you worry; just say the word and I punch anyone who disrespects you.”

“Do they really…?” I trailed off, staring into the fire. “Have wagers, I mean? You had the luxury of walking around in Skyhold relatively unhindered by status or fear of instant recognition; we did not exactly shout from the rooftops who you were.”

“Oh, honeychild, soldiers wager on just about anything if they have spare time and are paid well. You should’ve heard the things that were bet on in Kirkwall: and your Inquisition forces are much better paid than either the city guard or the Templars there, trust me.” Marian Hawke _slurped_ her stew while he talked and I could not help but shudder at the sound. “Ah, this is good. Say what you will, elves apparently can make a decent stew from just about anything edible. I remember this one time when Merrill…” She winked. “Apologies for changing the subject, but I’m having an inkling of a feeling you don’t particularly care discussing your love life.”

Hawke and I did not exactly behave like best friends ever since that night when I, however willingly, was stuck with tending to my ailing Commander (I can’t believe how easy it is now to call him mine and yet, here it is), but for the duration of this journey and her being a strategic ally of the Inquisition, I made the effort. _This_ , however, definitely went beyond the bounds of whatever uneasy truce we reached during our travels; not to mention I never did well with condescension, perceived or real.

“You are absolutely right.” I nodded, taking care that my eyes smiles just as well as my lips did. It was beaten into me early enough at the Academy—literally. “I do not much care about discussing the private aspects of my life; in particular the ones that might cast aspersions upon the good name of…”

“Oh for Andraste’s sake, it’s just you and me here, Roxanne.” Hawke sighed (like everyone else, I also apparently developed the mysterious inability to call her anything else but by her family name). “Can you cut the formal crap at least when it’s just ourselves?” She leaned forward intently. “Listen, girl, Fenris said you were brilliant, lovely and he had high hopes that you’d achieve much in your life based on those two years he has spent teaching you. I’d hate to tell him they’ve turned you into this prissy, dried-up pedantic spinster at that Val Royeaux academy of yours.“ She sighed. “I really want to get this off my chest, and as this is our first opportunity to speak without interruptions since we’ve left Skyhold, I’d kindly thank you for not interrupting. Look, I remember when I was your age…Carver and I joined the army, thought we can do just about anything, the world is our cuttlefish, as they say in Kirkwall. Especially me…I was a right brat in my young years.” She snorted. “Maker, I carried on with a Templar in Lothering for years.”

She must have seen the incredulity in my eyes.

“An _affair_ , yes, I know fancy words too. I bet that shocks the socks right off you, huh? Ser Bryant, his name was.” Her face softened as she said the name, voice wistful. “You know, I never really learned what happened to him after Lothering was overran by the darkspawn, but he wouldn’t have been the only one of his Order to have that happen to, Ferelden was utter chaos that year.  The Blight came, and we ran, and I had to take care of the family when I was only a few years older than you are now. Ten years in Kirkwall, and I could have turned into a raving lunatic any time some of that weird shit that went down there happened…Just ask Varric, or read his book, I swear anything in there is as true as the Chant. Ten years, girl. Ten sodding years. The only way to get through the lot you and I were given is to have friends you can trust absolutely and without reservation. Just allies, advisors, buddies, pals, whatnot _doesn’t count_. Whether it’s your back to the wall and the green shit is boiling out of the Fade and there are demons, blood mages and screaming civilians everywhere, or it’s a bad headache day spent with fancily dressed courtiers and bureaucrats who pass canapés and drink tea with exquisite care of their pinkies while trying to backstab you—it’s your friends who keep you from bleeding out.”

She stood up, half her face in shadow, half made sharp by the firelight, cheekbones jutting out.

“I’m _not_ saying you’re turning into a second Meredith Stannard, understand, but you lead the Inquisition, and that’s power aplenty for a smaller soul to get soured and rotten, let alone for an absolutely brilliant young woman who finds it real hard to bend. Don’t make me regret to throw in with you. Not to mention don’t make Cullen regret that his stomach is in knots and he stammers like a lovestruck boy every time he sees you. And don’t ever think about emulating me, either, because that would be mighty stupid of you. I mean, look at me: kicked out of my own city by a bunch of red statues after trying to save everyone, including them, from blood magic. Not so shiny.“ She rested her hand on my shoulder, squeezing a bit before turning away. “Steel, not iron wins the day. Any smith will tell you that tempered and easy to bend steel is what the best swords are made of; they fold it hundreds of times. Think on it: I’m too tired to make a better analogy.”

I tried, for weeks, for months, to forget what that demon showed me in the Fade at Therinfal Redoubt. I woke up in cold sweat, with hot shakes, heart hammering and chest heaving with dry sobs a long way after we have returned from there. I planted enough elfroot and spindlewed in the Haven chantry gardens to choke an army with it, just to get those scenes out of my mind. I know what the Envy demon wanted to achieve with those images, and I resisted, and I thought it would be easy to do…

The nightmare dreams, however, returned after Leliana handed me the sword of the Inquisitor on the Skyhold battlements in front of everyone, and with it came the responsibility over what, for all intents and purposes, is a small nation, growing day by day.  “ _Into darkness, unafraid_ ” is our motto, and people come to Skyhold or show up at one of our camps because they believe in the cause, the goal to bring the wars to an end, to seal all the Rifts and make Thedas a safe place to live once again.

It is also an undisputable fact that, like it or not, this small nation elected me as their leader. What to do with that responsibility, what to do with that power, and how to do it: much ink was spilled over this ever since the Ancient Age. But no amount of reading, no amount of deliberating circumstances, deeds and possible actions past and future, brought such sharp focus on the question of ‘which road to take’ for me, then what Hawke said tonight. I sit here, my candle slowly burning to a stub, listening to Sera snoring on the other pallet, and know that Hawke spoke in earnest, that she has been where I am now and that, perhaps, she is the only one from all of those surrounding me who understands, truly, what I am facing.

_The beginning of wisdom is the most sincere desire for instruction_. May Andraste give me strength to walk the path I have been given so that the dungeons I have seen in my nightmare in the Fade never materialize in reality. Not while I live, and not after either.

I do not think I shall sleep a lot tonight.

…

I will never bear great love to this region of Ferelden.

Crestwood. It is damp and harshly cold, and stinks of fish much more than The Fallow Mire of the Sword Coast ever can. It has sad memories of refugees fleeing the Blight, encountering perceived kindness and being finally betrayed and killed by the very man they believed would save them.

I have notified my advisors via raven that the mayor of Crestwood ( _marginal_ _note_ : not recording his name on purpose: let at least his family be spared the shame) is now on the Inquisition’s most wanted list. Learning about his deeds, the exact way he decided to just…flood those caves and let everyone die, including his own people who were there tending the sick left a sour taste in my mouth. Even more so considering what was on my mind so much these days: the way the Inquisition is shaping up to be. The way it may turn out. The way I may turn out.

I say now that I never would have made that same decision; but is that true? Had I been in the full possession of the facts, had the circumstances been just a bit different…? Cullen was right about command decisions when we talked about him sending me out there in Haven: you have to live with their consequences for the rest of your life. The Mayor of Crestwood, I believe, has made the wrong decision, based on what we know now. He pays the price for that. I, however, cannot help but consider the possibility of what I saw in the Fade that day at Therinfal.

What _is_ the Inquisition? What does it stand for? What do I stand for? Am I what others believe me to be: the Herald of Andraste, Lady of the Hand, the one sent to redeem this world and make it anew as some proclaim me to be?  Am I a Free Marcher, half-Orlesian chevalier, eager to prove herself in the Great Game, show her mettle to all who doubted her abilities as a leader, soldier, noble? Am I a woman barely twenty-two, slowly realizing her feelings towards a man older and more experienced in all that matters and not knowing how to cope with all that it entails? Am I to turn away from all of that or embrace all of it? Acceptance, denial or something else? Will I see the Inquisition become what I was shown in Envy’s nightmare, through my own actions, or will I hesitate, ponder and think infinitely, and through my own inaction someone else realizes the same nightmare?

What if…

In the middle of all those thoughts, in the middle of writing that missive and hating every word of it, though, Hawke walked up to me, gave me a one-armed hug, swift and hard, as I sat there, and said ‘you’ll be all right, honeychild’.

“I’m sure your spies will find that rat bastard and then you can do your special Inquisition justice on him with extreme prejudice,” she added, mouth compressed into a thin line. “Shit thinking like that is what made First Enhanter Orsino turn into a sodding blood-monster, too.”

 “I will be all right once we are away from this place, Hawke.” I said, putting my quill down. “Truly.” She petted my hand and I did not find it patronizing anymore; which just goes to show how one can make great strides in friendship when an adequate amount of rain and stale, rank cave-water is involved. “I do hope to be home by Satinalia, even if I have to fly.”

“Griffons are all extinct, I’m afraid,” Blackwall put in from the other side of the fireplace. We were sitting in Caer Bronach’s newly rebuilt great hall, enjoying some warmth and dryness after spending so long outside. “Now if you want to take some of those fine Orlesian coursers we found left here by the bandits…”

“I doubt Charger and her spies could find good use for them, so that is actually a good idea.” I grimaced, remembering. “After enough damp caves painted with symbols of defunct thieving guilds and arcane societies, I am afraid a Satinalia with hot mulled cider and gift-giving sounds way more appetizing. I do beg your pardon, Warden Stroud,” I added, nodding politely towards Hawke’s Warden friend, sitting unobtrusively in a corner, busy with checking the edge of his blade.

Ser Jean-Marc Stroud. The way he bowed to me upon our meeting made it immediately evident that he was an ex-Academy trainee, like me. I could see from his eyes that he recognized the plume on my helmet as well; what he thought of it he managed to hide more successfully. I gathered from Hawke that his family was a casualty in the Great Game and his departure from the Academy and joining the Wardens was somehow connected to that. I filed that information away to be discussed later, perhaps back at Skyhold during debrief on this mission; of more immediate concern were the implications of all what he shared with me regarding his discoveries.

“No offense taken, Inquisitor,” he assured me now. “I don’t particularly cherish the memory of that cave either, although it was somewhat better than other accommodations I dealt with in the past decade.”

“I do hope you will find Skyhold agreeable.” I was still trying to figure him out; his mannerisms clearly spoke of his education and noble origins, but I knew from Blackwell’s example that no matter what he was before, now he was, first and foremost, a Warden, with no past allegiances remaining. “My advisors will appreciate the news you bring.”

“Given that there is a price on my head by my own Order, I equally appreciate what for all intents and purposes is the Inquisition providing asylum.” Stroud was smiling under his bushy moustache as he said that, but I caught the sharp glance that passed between him and Blackwall. “If your Inquisition hears my brothers’ plight and decides to act upon my news to save the Grey Wardens of Orlais, I fulfilled my oath.”

“Whoa, there.” Sera butted in, holding a hand up. “Stop with the noble shite, makes me head hurt.” She pointed at Stroud. “You want something, we want something. Trade, right? What’s with the dancing? What’s with the poncy noble talk?”

“Sera, sometimes people actually are true to their heritage.” Solas put in, gently but firmly from where he was sitting, cross-legged, eyes halfway closed and clearly in some kind of a meditation. “Have you ever considered that?”

“Phffft.” There went another of Sera’s impossible-to-reproduce vocalizations. “You mean now I need to have the headache comin’ from more than one direction? Piss.”

“Oh, come now.” I watched Solas unfurl himself gracefully from the pillow he was sitting on and take Sera by the arm. “Let me save you from that headache. Tell me about the end goals of your organization; it always baffled me a bit that you did not seem to have those fully formulated. In the meantime, I can brew you something that…” The rest was mostly lost as the two of them exited the room; for a bony elf mage, Solas had surprising strength in him, and I did not see Sera struggle. She probably was too stunned to do anything.

It was painfully obvious why Solas was doing that, and indeed, about three heartbeats later Blackwall made an apologetic smile, muttered something about his whetstone being all ‘crappy and needing another one’, and exited the room as well.

“Would you look at that.” Hawke said, airily. “Almost as if they all wanted us alone so we can talk high and mighty Inquisition stuff.” She winked at Stroud. “You do poncy noble so well, too. It set my heart all aflutter.”

“Aflutter my ass, Hawke.” Stroud offered, in sharp contrast of his previous manners. He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. “You just want to butter me up so I don’t say bad things about you to your sister.”

“Nah, Aveline is already doing that.” Hawke threw a glance at me and shrugged, somewhat apologetically. “Sorry, Inquisitor—old war buddies do this kind of talk, and sometimes I just plain forget myself. Stroud here took care of my little sister Bethany when she became a Grey Warden and when he had to separate from her lately because of…well, reasons, our mutual friend Aveline Vallen made sure Beth got out of Orlais.” She shook her head. “Call me sentimental, but I wouldn’t have cared for Bethany hearing Corypheus’ false call.”

“Neither would have I.” Stroud said quietly. “Once we’re finished with this business and the threat of the false call is ended, I’ll find her.” He flashed a grin. “And then I’ll tell her all about your comments about me being poncy. She’ll just love that.”

“Nah, I’m reasonably sure she already knows you’re the least poncy ex-chevalier in existence.” Hawke grinned back, and I could not help but smile watching them. In that moment I again understood what she meant earlier telling me about the importance of having friends, and resolved to do better than I’ve done so far. This wasn’t the Academy, where I had to keep myself apart from caution of being destroyed by those more adept at playing the Great Game or by those resenting my abilities and progress surpassing other students of higher birth.

The Inquisition existed precisely as a counter to those bickering nobles, feuding mages and Templars, agents of Corypheus or Tevinter. If I was to be its true leader, did I have the right to keep myself apart the way I’ve done so far, except in very special circumstances? The more I watched how Hawke acted around people, whether she knew them from a long time ago or they just met, the more I understood that the part of me that held itself apart from everyone had to give way unless I wished to be an unreachable, untouchable icon-Inquisitor, set apart like a figurehead, secure in her power but not having any connection to the people she led…and that way led straight to the nightmare I saw in the Fade.

“Pardon us, Inquisitor,” Hawke raised me from my brooding, touching my shoulder. “Stroud has asked me to accompany him to the chapel for a vigil—he wishes to pray for his brothers who fell for the false call. You should probably head to bed if we want an early start back to Skyhold tomorrow.”

I stood up, looking at them; Hawke with her raven-black hair in its usual disarray, worn red scarf tied around her neck, still wearing her sweat-stained gambeson and greatsword with casual ease, and Stroud with his somber expression, carefully combed greying hair and moustache, Warden uniform painstakingly mended where it tore at his shoulder seam… and I suddenly knew what to do. How to start my journey back from those cliffs of isolation I placed myself all those years ago, how to continue those fumbling steps I already started to take in some ways, but which were not made with any conscious effort until Hawke brought it into painful focus and Stroud’s recounting of his isolated, aloof brotherhood’s plea made me understand even better the dangers not only me, but the entire Inquisition faced.

We cannot become like the Chantry we broke from, and we cannot go down the road the Grey Wardens did. It is my firm belief that the only way to continue is exactly the way something made me rearrange those flags in Therinfal’s Redoubt, during that ancient ritual.

People first.

“Would you mind if I accompanied you?” I made a little bow towards the Warden. “A vigil for your brothers and sisters as they face the greatest challenge and temptation would be a most fitting way to offer my first aid to you and them as Inquisitor.”

Stroud stared at me for a long second.

“The Herald of Andraste’s intercession would be…” he returned my bow, deeper than ever before, “most welcome, my lady.” He swallowed, hard. “Very much. Thank you.”

 “ _That’s_ what I’m talking about,” Hawke whispered to me fiercely, pressing my hand hard as we walked towards the chapel. “ _Now_ I understand why that stubborn, lovely dolt is so head over heels for you.”

That was an entirely inappropriate remark to make before spending the night in prayers, but reflecting back upon it now as I write this journal entry, I must admit that it kept me rather comfortably warm kneeling on the stones of the small chapel of Caer Bronach.

_Those who oppose thee_   
_Shall know the wrath of heaven._   
_Field and forest shall burn,_   
_The seas shall rise and devour them,_   
_The wind shall tear their nations_   
_From the face of the earth,_   
_Lightning shall rain down from the sky,_   
_They shall cry out to their false gods,_   
_And find silence._

I have to keep trying.

 

 


End file.
